My So Called Healthy Life

I'm sick. This is the second time this year I've had a cold. And you might say to yourself, well, hey, that's not so bad. But if you're me, you're not saying that. Because I don't get sick. EVER.

There's no reason for me to get sick. I don't have kids, or touch kids, or see kids. I sleep an adequate amount. I live in a hypoallergenic bubble. I can't even remember the last time I had a cold before this year's spate. It defies logic.

Especially because I started my current Ruin Your Life By Being Healthy Diet plan in January. [Incidentally, just weeks before my first cold. Hmmm. v. suspect.] For the first time in my life I am doing things like eating square meals, going to the gym regularly, and hello! I'm taking VITAMINS! Every DAY!! Isn't that supposed to mean guaranteed health for ever and ever, amen?

Well, it might be the Sudafed talking but I am starting to think this Health and Fitness thing is a scam. I'm tempted to go back to my previous habits. They were bad habits - but the results were fantastic! I lost 20 lbs by eating Chick-Fil-A everyday, for Pete's sake! (This was an ingenious little diet I dubbed the "Atrophy Diet". Miracle. Worker.) Fast food every day, no guilt for not going to the gym, and no vitamins? Round these parts we call that the Celestial Kingdom.

Anyway. Whatever the reason, there's not much I can do about it now that I'm sick. I'll just lay on my couch and say to no one in particular, "I'n thick" over and over again until I start to feel better. And then once my head is clear I'll reevaluate the pros and cons of this supposed "healthy lifestyle." Pffft.

Parents, I'm Available For Babysitting

OK, so we all know that I have like zero opportunities in my daily life to deal with children, right? I mean, this isn't a surprise to anyone, is it? So I can hardly be blamed if I'm not so great at the basic child caring stuff, right?

Let's just all please keep this in mind as I relate the following story.

One of the women I know has a husky 6 month old baby boy. He's a big kid, and very active. And so I was holding him and throwing him around and basically entertaining the hell out of him after church on Sunday. Unfortunately, I was wearing a really fantastic coat at the time, and it didn't really afford too much mobility or range of motion in the arm region. So when little Timothy did a slow-motion back flip out out of my grasp, I couldn't really get a good hold on him. And he sort of tipped backward and started sliding toward the floor. It became clear pretty quickly that he was going to do a face plant, and all I could do to salvage the situation was to turn that face plant into more of a "setting him down on his face" type scenario. Not ideal, I grant you, but the best to be hoped for given the circumstances.

So I frantically grabbed at his shirt, then his pants, and as he was getting close to the floor I made a last dash effort and grabbed at his diaper ... and I'm sorry to say I accidentally gave his little boy kibbles and bits a pretty significant pinch. In fact, I essentially lowered him by his willie until he landed on his face.

Let me explain by saying that I really didn't have a lot of choices. I could have let him crash to the floor onto his head. Broken his fall with my foot. Or lowered him down a mite more slowly by his nether regions. Sometimes you've got to make hard choices in life, this just happened to be one of them.

I'm not sure what he was more upset about: the face plant of the willie pinch. Either way, he was NOT happy with me. But never fear, mothers, after about 1 minute crying he was happily playing again.

And I sternly reminded myself that THIS is why I don't take care of children.

And The Last Shall Be First

I signed up for Blockbuster's answer to NetFlix (Total Access) a few months ago and up to this point I have been very pleased with it. I like being able to take the video into the store for that "instant gratification" factor. I like how quick and reliable the deliveries are. And I like that the DVDs are in pretty good shape. It's been a pretty positive experience.

I should have known that some idiocy would surface sooner or later. For months now they've been dutifully shipping the #1 item in my queue. But today I got a notice that they had shipped item #2 in my queue. Generally, this wouldn't be a problem, but item #2 is Disc 2 of a Two-Disc set of The Thorn Birds. (Just to be clear, item 1 was Disc 1). And call me crazy, but I'm just not interested in watching the end before I get to watch the beginning.

So, now I'm all conflicted. I don't know if I should watch the second disc first, OR if I should send it back immediately, get disc one and put disc two back into my queue (in the first position, of course). Option 2 sounds good ... but I hate waiting. And what if they still don't send the right disc? Oh man, this is hard.

Anyone got any other brilliant ideas to counteract this colossal display of moronitude?

I (hate) Vitamins

I am the worlds worst vitamin taker. I know this because I have a trucker hat with the words World's Worst Vitamin Taker on it.

I haaaaaaate taking vitamins. It is one of those things that I decide I should do and so I buy a bottle take about 2 of them, and then fall out of the routine. About four years later I'll pick up the bottle only to find that it expired in 2001. I'm not exaggerating about that. Last fall I had to teach a young women lesson on "being healthy" and taking vitamins was one of the suggestions. So I said, "Well, I better practice what I preach" and went to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a full bottle of vitamins that expired in 2001. Meaning that it, like Mustard, came along for the ride on at least 4 moves. Unlike Mustard, I threw these nasty vitamins into the trash with a glint of triumph in my eye. Nasty vitamins!

The thing is, I should really be taking vitamins. I'm not known for being the most ... er ... nutritious eater. I didn't drink milk throughout my entire 20s, so unless there's a LOT of calcium in cheese pizza I think I'm in trouble.

Hi there, Osteoporosis. I'm Gretchen. I'm introducing myself now because we're gonna be good friends.

What I want to know why they can't make vitamins more fun to take? I think I'd be much more excited about it if they had Flintstone's vitamins for adults. Don't adults need to be bribed with purple Dinos and pink Wilmas too? (yes, they do.)

This vitamin problem is just one example of how getting old and having to take better care of your body is completely devoid of joy.

On Prayers and Parties

They say that when you don't feel like praying, that's when you should get right down on your knees and pray until you FEEL like praying.

In my opinion, the same goes for parties.

(Especially parties of the New Year's Eve variety. Le sigh. I'm glad you're back from the cleaners, Sequined Top, I need you now more than ever. Dick Clark's siren song is particularly strong this year.)

Who Moved My Cheese?

I've got a serious problem, people. There seems to be a conspiracy afoot.

A couple of months ago I was grocery shopping and went to get some grated parmesan cheese. I like the pre-shredded kind, like what Sargento provided. I do not like to grind my own (hello that’s WAY more work than I approve of doing). And I don’t, out of snobbery, like the green can powdered kind. Do they even make that anymore?

Anyway, so I was shopping at the oh-so-ghetto Safeway across the street from my house and lo and behold when I went to refresh my supply of the queso there was NO parmesan, of any ilk, available. This had never been a problem before. What happened? Isn’t parma one of the most popular cheese of all time?

I chalked the missing cheese up to this particular Safeway being HORRIBLE. And since I like to make dramatic statements that don’t impress anyone but me I decided to immediately switch grocery stores. So I started shopping at Bloom which was a heck of a lot further away, but had attractive vegetable displays, those cute little half-carts, and a hearty supply of my favorite cheeses.

This worked very well for several months.

Last Saturday, however, I went to Bloom for my weekly shopping. And when I got to the dairy case I looked, and I looked, and I LOOKED. But even though they had specialty cheeses such as goat, Muenster, and even HAVARTI, there was NO PARMESAN! Oh sure there was mozarella in 5 lb bags all ready for the fatification of America, but no, no parmesan could be had for love nor money.

How can this be, I ask you? Is it just me? Am I the only one in the world that is buying parmesan cheese – thus making stocking it impractical? It seems unreasonable to me that there should not be any parmesan cheese at any of my local grocery stores. But perhaps I am just unreasonable. (I'm not.)

Just so you know, I have a history of my favorite foods being removed from the grocery store supply chain and it's getting old. First it was my favorite salad dressing: Parmesan Peppercorn, followed by my favorite flavor of Barilla pasta sauce (Green & Black Olive), culminating in the removal of the entire Barilla pasta sauce line. Sigh ...

My needs are few, grocery store people. In fact, here is my weekly grocery list so you can make sure to have everything I need stocked. I'm sure if we work together we can make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen anymore.

• Chicken Nuggets (or other frozen treat like pizza or tater tots)
  
• Apples/Pears (or some other seasonal fruit), 5 pieces
• Roma tomatoes, 3 pieces
• Romaine lettuce, 1 bunch
• Parmesan cheese
• 3 pkgs Deli Meat
• 1 pkg Sliced cheese, Colby-Jack , Muenster or Provolone
• Frosted Mini-Wheats
• ½ Gallon Skim milk

That’s it. (Generally speaking of course, sometimes I get all crazy and throw a can of chili in). Could you please try not to remove any more of these items from your stock? I'm not sure how much more paring down this grocery list can take.

Wherin Thanksgiving Inspires Me to Give Thanks

Thanksgiving Vacation is sadly, so sadly, coming to a close. Le sigh.

In a way I'm sort of happy to see it go. As far as Thanksgivings go it was a bit of a rough one for me.

It all started at about 3AM on Thursday morning when I woke up and said to myself, "You know, I could really go for a nice vomit right about now. That would really hit the spot."

This is weird for two reasons. First, it is against my religion to wake up in the middle of the night. Once I'm down, I'm down for the count. Second, puking my guts out isn't really my idea of a great way to spend, well, any amount of time really. And if it must be done, it should be done at a convenient time like when I'm at work or something. ("No, I will NOT rewrite that project proposal -- Baaaarrrfff! -- So there!") Puking should under no circumstances interrupt my precious sleep time.

So I was surprised at how nonplussed I was to trot down the hall to worship at the porcelain throne. I practically skipped there.

But even though the first trip was sort of my idea, my body took over after that and thought it was Great Fun to send me running, and I mean RUNNING whenever it thought I wasn't paying attention. The element of surprise was its favorite tactic, it seemed. From 3AM to 9AM my brother's house was turned into a track meet as I sprinted around corners and hurtled over couches in and effort to avert disaster.

So I spent much of the day in bed. It was essentially the Thanksgiving that was the opposite of all that Thanksgiving should be. No playing Mayflower with the kids that came over, no nonchalant picking in the stuffing, no decorative napkin folding. And most heart wrenching of all, no desire to eat so much I wanted to puke. Which is just wrong. So wrong.

And yet, oddly, I gave thanks. Many thanks, as a matter of fact.

I was thankful to be at my brother and sister-in-law's house for several reasons, but foremost among them was that since my SIL has been combating morning sickness they were well stocked with saltines and ginger ale. The closest thing I have at my house to invalid food is penne pasta and Diet Coke. I have no jello, no juice, no bread, not even any medicines that haven't passed their 'Use By' date. So I was thankful that I wasn't at my house where I would have ended up a dessicated husk of a person.

I was also extremely thankful to have so many hands on deck. I had a steady stream of people coming in to check on me. And I'm here to tell you, I may talk a big game about being a sassy independent single chick, but in the face of illness I'm a total wuss. I felt no shame about blatantly using my Mom to do the simplest things for me. I'd just lay there and yell, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" until she'd come check on me. And then I'd ask her to pass me my juice box. It's been a long time since I've been sick and had my Mom around to fuss over me (in that perfect not-too-fussy way that Moms have) and I took full advantage. I appreciated it so much I told her that I'd forgiven her for calling me the "weirdest of all of her weird children." And yes, I've forgiven her. But I have not forgotten. I will never forget. You hear me, Mother? Never! (Mostly because it's totally NOT TRUE! My brothers and sisters are so much weirder than I have ever been.)

So, all in all, it was a thankful Thanksgiving. Even though I wasn't thankful for normal things like a turkey leg and mountains of mashed potatoes and had to settle to be thankful for stupid stuff like 'good health' and a 'loving family'. Sheesh. Is that the lamest thing you've ever heard or what? Like I said, it was a rough Thanksgiving.

FYI, you'll be pleased to hear that Mustard wasn't put out by my illness. I caught him trying to make off with this pie while everyone was watching football.


Oh he tried to backpedal by telling me he was "bringing it to me because I didn't get any." I wasn't buying it, however. He wouldn't bring me pie if I were on my death bed. Fortunately for him, I didn't have the energy to stay mad at him, the little stinker.

I hope you all had just as Thankful if much less Pukey Thanksgiving as I did!

Mexico Requires Too Much Math

Even under the best of circumstances I'm not so great at math. I recently took an assessment test that asked me a lot of complicated math problems which I did quite handily, so it's not that I can't do math ... it's just that I CANNOT be bothered. I will only do math under extreme duress or if I am the only possible person available to do it. Usually I'll just stare at the dinner bill until someone just tells me how much I should leave for a tip, and Voila! doing math is avoided once again. So far this strategy has worked like a charm.

Camie isn't a mathematical wiz either (for a while there we were outsourcing our math to one another - I handled subtraction, while she had addition. It worked very well), so you can imagine my distress while in Mexico when we had to convert Real Money into Mexican Pesos for practically EVERY TRANSACTION. It was a special form of torture. And I don't mind telling you, I was a first class moron at it.

The conversion wasn't really that difficult - like 10% - the only percentage I can actually handle. But I could never figure out if it was up by 10% or down by 10%. It continued to eluded both Camie and me for the entire vacation. Secretly, I was glad it wasn't just me ... I hate being an idiot by myself. Here are a few examples of our bumbling. Just for your reference, 5 Dollars = 50 Pesos.

The first night at dinner our waiter brought his little hand held credit card machine to the table, which, incidentally, I really like from a security point of view. But it sure made my "stare at the bill until someone tells me how much to tip" strategy seem especially awkward. When it became apparent that I was on my own for this one I started looking for the Tax so I could double it. BUT THERE WAS NO TAX! (at least as far as I could see). The only option at this point -- much to my horror -- was guessing. Even at this point I wasn't about to do actual math. So I just looked up at him and asked $7?? I have no idea if that was even remotely close to 20%.

Out at the most sucky bar, Senor Frogs, Camie and I bought some RIDICULOUSLY expensive drinks. And, I was so proud of her, she accidentally gave the bartender a 30 CENT tip instead of a 3 dollar tip. The place was so sucky and the drinks so overpriced I felt that this was a case where bad Math was doing a good deed.

Camie haggled a vendor down to $15 dollars for some little presents, but then tried to only give them $1.50.

I tried to give a waiter a 500 peso tip, or $50, when really I wanted to give him $5.

Ugh. Don't these people know that when I'm ON VACATION the last thing I should be required to do is perform basic MATH? That's why I go on vacation, so I don't have to do anything I don't want to do! Duh.

If I Were a Handbag

**** Notice to sensitive eyes - Swearing ahead, but it's in tapestry, so I'm not sure if that counts ***

Earlier this work week I was just about to burst a vessel because I was told that I had to rework a perfectly fine document for a completely pointless reason. I'm not the kind of girl that likes to do things over and over again just for kicks. I'm crazy that way, I know.

Since my next-door cubicle neighbor, Amy, is a good friend and a sympathetic listener, she didn't mind that I kept interrupting her busy day to complain about how mad I was about it. She feels my pain, as only someone going through the same torture can. So when she called over the partition that she had the perfect thing to make me feel better I knew it was going to be good.

Maybe it was fate, or Karma, or something, but the day of my meltdown her purse-a-day calendar had this paragon of fashion to offer. It could not have summed up how I felt better:



To me, it is the perfect mixture of Kelly Bag style and Kiss My Grits attitude. I'm not saying that if I were a handbag that this one would absolutely be me; I'm way too complex to be defined by a single handbag. But it is absolutely running high in the polls. The classic glamour of a Kelly Bag, AND a sassy attitude? You have to admit, it's a pretty good match.

Shoot Out at the Black & Decker Corral

Many of you have asked, and I'm happy to report that my iron has indeed made its way back home. Not without a little muscle, though, I must tell you.

It was almost like High Noon. I strode down my long long hallway at noon (well, noon-45, but pretty close), my Silver BCBG Wedge heels glinting like spurs. There, at the end of the hall, stood the ringleader of the notorious Small Appliance Robbers. Quicker than lightening I drew my accusational finger and fired it at her.

"Hey! Didn't you borrow my iron?" I shot.

"Oh, that was you?" she sputtered, clutching her stomach. "Yes, I did."

"Can I get that back? It's been almost three weeks."

Visibly cowering (I'm not exaggerating that satisfying detail) she fumbled for her keys to get me my iron right that very minute. Clearly she could tell that I meant business. And she was right. I did mean business! Hijacking my small appliances is very serious business.

But right then the elevator (that she had called) arrived, and I needed to go get my church on. No time to babysit her while she returned my iron, and I certainly wasn't going to waste MY OWN time taking it back to my apartment myself. So I told her to trot it on down the hall and leave it where my flyer had clearly indicated she should.

Despite her failure to be trustworthy before, I didn't worry about her not following through. This time, I knew where she lived, and if my iron wasn't on my doorstep when I returned, no amount of holy post-church glow would keep me from getting some whoop-ass all up in there.

Karma Police

You remember when the firestorm of crappiness hit, right? Well, today was court day. I'd vowed to turn this most obnoxious event into something tolerable by sandwiching it between some fun activities. You know, turning Lemons into Lemonade and whatnot. This was the plan:

1. Go to Stephenie Meyer's Eclipse Book Signing on Thursday night
2. Stay the night at Camie's in VA to make getting to Alexandria by 9:30 possible.
3. Go to court with an iron-clad defense; get off scott-free
   
4. Spend the day shopping the quaint boutiques of Alexandria
5. Lunch glamorously at a bistro

As with most things in my life, this adventure didn't go quite as I'd hoped.

I had expected the book signing to be PACKED with little girls - and I was right. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about the propensity little girls have for screaming. I walked into Borders and heard a shouting match at the back of the store: "EDWARD!!" "JACOB!!" "EDWARD!!" "JACOB!!" (FYI, these are the two hunky heros of Eclipse.) This went on for about 5 minutes, until they started shouting "STE-PHE-NIE! STE-PHE-NIE!" When Ste-phe-nie finally made her appearance more screaming (of course) ensued, but this time in a Beatle-mania-throw-your-panties kind of way. Oh, and did I mention that they were also climbing the bookshelves? Because they were. I'm seriously rethinking my desire to ever have a child, since there's a 50-50 chance it could grow up to be a teenage girl.

Already with the tinges of a headache, all of the screaming and loud-girl-chatter made it start to intensify. I toyed with leaving, but after a certain number of hours dedicated to an activity you sort of feel like you just have to see it through to the end. So I waited in line until my number, 916, was called. It was all fairly anti-climactic, as I knew it would be. But I'm chalking it up to life experience. And it was pretty cool to meet Stephenie, a published author, if only for .6 seconds.

When I got into the car to go to Camie's I realized just how fierce my headache had grown. I seemed completely incapable of logical thought. Camie lives on US 50. The Borders I was at is ON US 50 ... but instead of just driving down it, I somehow got myself turned around and onto a completely different highway, with absolutely no idea of where I was going. I had to call and have her guide me in.

By the time I limped into her apartment, my head was REALLY raging. So I spent my fun girl sleepover puking and laying on the bathroom rug. I am a charming house guest.

Today, Court Day, I arrived at the courthouse without incident. But I was sweating bullets the entire 35 minutes I sat there watching other people get their verdicts. The judge was a bit harsh and VERY few people got off with nothing. Most had to go to driving school and I really didn't want to go to driving school. So when the judge called my name I gulped and said "Here, your honor." He asked for the officer. No answer - Glory be, Hallelujah! - he wasn't there! So the judge just said, "No witness, you're free to go." And boy did I go.

With the taste of freedom fresh in my mouth I set out to shop til I dropped. But my plan to shop around wasn't as much fun as I'd hoped. Most of the stores weren't opened, and I wasn't really in the mood to shop, anyway. Which is really weird for me. I decided that I'd prefer to go back to Borders and keep reading the book that I'd started while waiting during the book signing. So I reformulated my plan for the day and headed off.

Just when it became too late to fix my error, I realized that I'd planned my driving route all wrong and I was going in the exact opposite direction that I should have been going. Once again, I had to remind myself that today was all about making Lemons into Lemonade so I should just enjoy the drive along the river, usually one of my favorites. No sooner had I thought this, then I went around a corner right into a speed trap ... where, you guessed it, I GOT A TICKET!

Two MEASLY hours after leaving court, I had a brand-spankin-new ticket to my name. The long arm of the law will not be so easily avoided it seems.

And you know what? Next time I'm taking those lemons and using them as a garnish on a tankard of Absolut Lemonade.

Too Pumped Up

I'm sure none of you are as foolish as I am, and push yourself too hard at the gym. No, you're much smarter than I am. You wouldn't take a strength training class conducted by a sadist. A Prince of Darkness. A bringer of all that is painful. I'm sure you wouldn't be that foolish.

I, however, am that foolish and did take that class.

I very nearly committed first-degree murder when the Instructor straight from the 7th Ring of Hell said, "Ok, just 4 more! 4, 3-and-a-half, 3, 2, Ok 8 more! You didn't think you were getting off that easy, did you?" This was right around squat rep # 350 (with weights, some balancing on one leg). At this point my quads lost all of their elasticity, and would neither expand nor contract. When your muscles give out on you like that you really start to appreciate your skeleton in a whole new way. Before it was just there to give my fat something to hang onto. Now, my skeleton was the only thing between me and a pile of oooze.

But did I stop? I mean, my legs were gone, but I still had arms and abs, right? I should stick around and torture them too. Right?! I told you, I'm a fool. By the end of that hour, the only muscles not completely blasted were those that controlled my tear ducts. (Although those were on the verge of getting a work out too.) I crawled out of the gym and down the street, looking like I'd been hobbled. It was hard, I tell you. I was just shy of pushing a baby out of its stroller and demanding that the mother wheel me to the bus stop.

Nevertheless, I made it home. I'll always consider that voyage home akin to Shackleton's expedition to the South Pole, since both journeys were considered to be a death sentence. I'm laying on my couch now. It's the same location I've been in since I collapsed here four hours ago. My fingers just barely started working, so I thought I'd send out a distress call. If I'm not back tomorrow, please send someone to make sure the lactic acids haven't petrified me in the night.

It seems that my girly muscles couldn't take the heavy-duty hardcoreness after a measly couple of weeks worth of atrophy. Stupid girly muscles.

By the way, I'm really dreading the thought of having to go through the contortions involved in taking off a sports bra. I'll probably end up with my elbows pinned to my ears for the larger part of an hour. Couldn't they make those things a little less, um, binding?

Flame Roasted Coffeehouse

Several months ago my friend Anna asked me if I had been to the Mayorga Coffee Roasters Coffeehouse, because she'd recently gone for lunch, and she really liked it. I had not. Now, you have to realize something about Anna. If there is anything lovely or of good report, Anna will approve of it. If there is anything shady or unseemly, Anna will gently imply that it might not be a good idea. If I'm ever concerned that my feelings on a particular topic might be out of whack, I can always run it by Anna and know that I'll be pointed in the right direction. I call her The Great Validater. So anyway, the point is, when Anna recommends something, I just do it.

On Monday, I was so worn out from being not very busy I took a sick day (some of which I slept away, thus proving to myself that if I wasn't sick and tired I was at least tired). The reason I mention it, is because it isn't very often I find myself with an entire Monday afternoon stretching out before me. That, my friends, is a luxurious feeling, and it seemed like a perfect opportunity to try out Mayorga's. So I stuck a book in my purse and headed off.

It was everything Anna said it would be. First of all, it was incredibly spacious. I'm so used to cramped places, it felt almost scandalously roomy. They had heavy linen curtains. They had soft lighting. They had abundant comfortable seating. They played world music. They had a tasty sandwich menu. And a prodigious drink menu. They didn't care if you stayed all day. There were freelancer types scattered about typing on their laptops, reading the newspaper, stacking manila folders onto wooden chairs, and rummaging in their battered leather satchels. In short, it was entirely cozy!

I settled in. And fully expected to spend the afternoon reading and nursing a Diet Coke on one of the leather couches.

I'd been there about an hour and a half, and had just about decided that I should chuck it all and become a barrista, when my senses started to pick up on a "commotion." I looked up lazily to see if I could see the problem when a man came running out from one of the back rooms.

"Fire! Fire!" he yelled.

I blinked. "Fire? Fire?" I scoffed. Who yells "Fire! Fire!?" What are we, in a movie? But sure enough, a couple of seconds later some thick smoke started billowing out from the back room. Frantically, the freelancers started stuffing their leather satchels with their scattered papers and hightailed it out of there. The barristas started running around in circles; I presumed they were looking for fire extinguishers. I, myself sat there and watched the show. This is the second time I've been in a fire this year, so I can afford to have a nonchalant attitude about it, I suppose. But I didn't see what good my running around would do. So I continued to sit until I could actually smell the smoke strongly, at which point I decided that this wasn't going to be resolved quickly. So I got up, walked across the room to throw away my trash and walked outside.

I was more put out that I had to get up and leave, than the fact that I was in danger of smoke inhalation. And I was, of course, disappointed that I'd barely found such an excellent coffee shop only to see it go up in flames a mere 2 hours later. But considering the spate of odd and shocking things that have been happening in the last week, my overwhelming thought as I walked away from the heavily smoking building was "Of course."

A Pressing Concern

My iron was abducted ... I mean borrowed almost TWO WEEKS ago. I was on the phone getting some juicy details about wedding shower presents ... so I didn't pay very much attention to what the person was saying about where she lived and how long she wanted to borrow it. Basically all I could make out between talking about fuzzy handcuffs and lingerie were the words "borrow" and "iron".

I (wrongly, as it turns out) assumed it wouldn't be a big deal. It was an iron, after all ... who wants to keep an iron? I thought to myself, "Why not try to be neighborly. 'Can I borrow a cup of sugar' and all that. It's not like you use your iron everyday." And so I loaned it out. Fully expecting to get it back within a day or two.

Two weeks later, amigos, the deadline on neighborliness has expired. I've gone through all of my knitwear, and I need my iron back.

You know the saying, Desperate Times call for Desperate Measures, or in this case Wrinkled Times call for Subtle Hints in the Form of a Clever Missing Person Flyer. My neighbors all recieved a copy of this flyer under their door tonight.


I could have been more scathing in it - but I didn't want to scare off the non-iron-stealers in the building. I still have to ride the elevator with these people. I'll save my ire for the guilty party. To that end I'm in my apartment right now practicing my "stern and disappointed expression" in the mirror while I deliver a particularly fierce version of the Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be speech. I have to say, I look like a total badass. Albeit a pretty wrinkly badass.

Universe 867, Me 0

There are times when things are going along just swimmingly, and there are times when you step in the proverbial Cow Pat of Life. This week is nothing short of Craptastic.

A few examples, for your consideration:

Last Saturday I went to a Luau in an effort to get my flirt on. Things were going pretty well, until the helium balloons blew into the chocolate fondue fountain. (Yeah, it was that kind of party). Wanting to be helpful while cleaning up the mess I suggested just popping the balloons so they A) wouldn't blow into the chocolate again, and B) no one would run into them and get all chocolaty. So The Hostess held the balloons and I popped them - thereby splattering her white shorts with chocolate. I left promptly.

Later that evening I was meeting other friends in Old Town Alexandria, VA. It's a quaint and charming city, but one that is practically impossible for the novice to navigate what with all of the One Ways, No Turns, Do Not Enters, and such. I've known for years that VA is a nightmare to navigate. And so I should have known better than to venture into virgin territory. At night. I was practically asking for trouble. And I got what I (apparently) deserved: A ticket for making a left turn where there was supposedly a "No Turns" sign. I fully admit that there are times when I deserve to be ticketed. This was absolutely NOT one of those times. To add insult to injury I have to go to COURT to take care of it. That will be a fantastic day in my life, I'm sure.

On Monday, after a day of feeling grumpy, and hating any activity that was keeping me from curling up into a ball under my covers, I decided I should go to the gym and get some endorphins pumpin. So I drove to the gym and waited patiently for this moron to master backing out of their parking space. When they'd finally managed it, this little snot-nosed punk sped in from the other direction and took it, a la Fried Green Tomatoes. I didn't ram his car screaming that I'm older and have more insurance ... but I did scream, "Oh, YOU LITTLE SH*T!" and glared at him really really fiercely. He didn't care.

After the gym I felt a little bit better. I went to go find a Great Harvest Bread Store so I could have some bread for sandwiches (I'm picky about my bread, what can I say). I knew it was on Rockville Pike, but there are about 45 shopping centers up and down the Pike, and I wasn't quite sure which one had the Great Harvest store. So I drove in and out of them for 25 minutes, before finally finding it. Of course, it was closed.

At work on Tuesday I remembered that I'm interested in taking a writing class at the Writers Center in Bethesda. The website was down, so I said, hey it's only a couple of blocks from my office, I'll just walk down there (in the sweltering heat while wearing high heels) and get myself a catalog. Surprise, surprise! It was closed. Despite it being right smack dab in the middle of their advertised office hours.

Crossing a crosswalk (against the light, I'll admit), I see a car flying down the street. When I saw it I said, "So THAT is what a Bat out of Hell actually looks like!" Fast. Dark. And seriously bloodthirsty. This car had to be going 50 miles an hour through downtown Bethesda. It started honking about 1/2 block before it got to the intersection to let us know that it was NOT STOPPING. Nor would "slowing" be on the agenda. It was move, or be moved (presumably by her bumper). I was practically to the curb, so I wasn't as concerned about my life as I was about the 4 people who were behind me. I looked back to make sure they wouldn't be flattened into road pancakes when the driver flipped me off, pointed very POINTEDLY at her green light, flipped me off again, and continued to honk all the way through the intersection.

Today, I drove to work because I had an orthodontic appointment in the morning, and I was running late. A massive traffic jam only made me later. My normal parking lot upped it's price from $5 a day to $10 a day. I opted to park in a metered lot instead. But there weren't any "extended time" metered spots in any of the SEVEN parking lots I checked. So I've been running down to feed the 2 hour meter all day long. And now, just two hours before I am due to leave I went to go fill it for the final time. And I had a ticket.

I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I can tell when the Universe is trying to get me. So you can quit now, Universe. I get it. You hate me. How about I just take a mental health day, stay out of everyone's way, and we call it even? That work for you?